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Abstract
Every Monday at noon I travel around Madrid almost from end to end to go to the radio. From Cuzco to the Prado del Rey studios, which is about 15 kilometres, a few transfers and about 40 minutes on public transport to get my thoughts together, go over the script of the programme, look at the veins of a traveller with sleeves rolled up, or check the dressings for venous ulcers that shyly appear under the stockings of some old woman... nursing mania. Forty minutes dedicated only to me and my thoughts. Forty minutes that no hospital bell, no perfusion pump and no telephone warning of an admission interrupts. A moment of peace despite the discomfort of the metro during rush hour.
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